


speed of sound

by wreathe



Category: His Dark Materials (TV), His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman
Genre: Domestic, F/F, Fluff, Light Angst, Parenthood, Science Girlfriends, kind-of AU, mary is obviously the good cop, they deserve peace and happiness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-07
Updated: 2021-01-07
Packaged: 2021-03-18 06:28:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28613604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wreathe/pseuds/wreathe
Summary: She’s a physicist—both of them are, with her office a floor away from Mary’s, Marisa a constant visitor to the Cave in the basement, Mary a perpetual part of the audience in all of Marisa’s conference presentations.
Relationships: Marisa Coulter/Mary Malone
Comments: 15
Kudos: 56





	speed of sound

There is an arm tossed around her, heavy and warm, and the gentle, even sound of breathing just behind her head.

It’s the creaking of the door that wakes her. Not the sun; not even her body’s natural rhythm that automatically wakes her at dawn. Mary has always been a heavy sleeper, so it comes as no surprise that their daughter sneaking into their room does not elicit any reaction from her. It’s Marisa that has always been perceptive of the minutest things like this, and Mary—Mary has talents of her own; talents concerning other things, like how to cheer Marisa up, or assuage her deep-seated fears.

Marisa deigns to open an eye, observing with her sleep-blurred gaze the outline of Lyra’s figure as she tiptoes carefully across the short distance to the foot of the queen-sized bed. Their daughter hesitates for a moment when she gets there, perhaps opting to instead wait for one of them to wake and notice her standing, instead of outright calling their attention and disturbing their peaceful slumber.

Marisa cranes her head. Lyra jolts back ever-so-slightly, not expecting one of her mothers to be awake so close to morning. 

“Mother? Can I…” Lyra’s soft voice trails off, and Marisa does not say anything, pulling down the sheets in silent invitation instead. Beside her Mary shifts, then stills not a second later; Marisa would not be surprised if she slept through their entire exchange.

Their daughter’s footsteps creak against the wooden floorboards as she walks to Marisa’s side. Lyra carefully slips in next to her and slides a small hand around her waist, curling up and leaning her head against Marisa’s chest. Moments like this are increasingly becoming rare as the years pass—Lyra, in a bid to become more independent and to be seen as a woman grown, capable of making life-changing decisions at a mere age of thirteen, has entered a phase Mary likes to refer to as _teenage angst_ , which, apparently, entails constant arguments at the dinner table, locking herself in her room, and not wanting to be seen with either of her mothers at her private school.

She smooths down Lyra’s hair and plants a light kiss atop her head before wrapping an arm securely around her slim frame, holding her close just as she has so many times before.

Their daughter fits perfectly against her just as she did when she was an infant, then a toddler, then a young child. Marisa wonders vaguely when the last time Lyra would ever sleep like this with them would be, before once more falling prey to slumber with the lullaby of Lyra and Mary’s sleep-sounds from either side of her.

* * *

Physicist. Not experimental theologian. 

She’s a physicist—both of them are, with her office a floor away from Mary’s, Marisa a constant visitor to the Cave in the basement, Mary a perpetual part of the audience in all of Marisa’s conference presentations.

Her days are filled with students and research, meetings with coworkers, meetings—again—with various representatives offering to finance her research. Marisa is thought of as a terror; absolutely frightening, but very much well-respected across the Physics Department and Oxford University itself. Marisa likes to think that it’s only because she sets high standards, and expects students to meet said standards just as she has time and time again. Her wife—Dr. Mary Malone of the same Physics Department—is as well-respected, but without the reputation of being terrifying, a sharp contrast that Marisa never fails to remember.

They’re perceived as a _power couple_ by the students and faculty, something Lyra had told them the other month during dinner. Mary had merely raised a curious brow before shrugging and returning to her food. Marisa, on the other hand, had stayed silent and let Lyra explain, though a part of her was secretly pleased. 

Her wife still has the photo of the mountain taped on her door, and Marisa runs a finger along the age-worn edges of the thing before peering through the small window to check if any of the students or professors were there. There’s no one but a shadow moving behind the blinds, and she lets herself in, closing the door behind her as quietly as she can. 

The sole occupant of the room does not notice as she stalks past the bookshelves with various publications, the boxes with various old equipment from the stockroom, the desk with all the pictures of them.

“I suppose there’s a logical explanation as to why you’re meddling with something there?” Marisa asks. 

“Hello, love.” Mary parts the blinds to address her, giving her a bright smile. “Surprised me, you did. Finished with all your meetings?”

Marisa takes a step back to let Mary get down from the ledge with ease. Her wife presses a chaste kiss to her lips once she’s close enough to do so.

“Yes, I am,” Marisa answers. She sits down on one of the chairs. “Would you like to explain what you were doing before I came in?”

“Oh, just a nest of fledgelings in the drain again,” Mary explains. “Let me make tea for you, and coffee for me. The usual?”

Marisa nods.

On Mary’s desk is a collection of framed photos of the three of them: Lyra as a young child during their master’s graduation ceremony, and then again at Marisa’s doctorate graduation—the first one. The others are baby pictures, candid photos during vacations, the two of them during their small wedding when Lyra was eight.

Mary had come into their life in the aftermath of Marisa’s explosive divorce that saw her becoming a pariah in the circles she so comfortably stayed in for most of her life, months after damned Asriel—who’d made it pointedly clear that though his interests lay solely on his research, he would not neglect to send in the sufficient amount of funds for Lyra’s upbringing—ran off to Svalbard. Marisa had met Mary in one of her classes while she was working on her master’s degree, something she was intent on achieving despite a child she had to raise on her own.

Their life together had sailed smoothly—bar the occasional arguments, of course—since then, and Marisa even has two doctorates, if only because her wife had urged her to do so the moment Marisa had expressed but an inkling of interest in pursuing higher education once more. _What’s stopping you?_ Mary had said, _a bunch of old, decrepit men?_

Lyra had grown up in Oxford, running around the university, sneaking into undergraduate classes, spending hours trying to elude both Mary and Marisa when she fancied a game of hide-and-seek with her mothers.

“Marisa, love, are you alright?” 

The lilt in Mary’s voice sends an affectionate twinge through Marisa’s chest and she stares at her, waiting for an explanation.

“You’ve been staring at your tea for five minutes straight.”

“I… Yes, of course, darling,” Marisa responds, the term of endearment so natural on her lips, like she’s said it a thousand times before. It slips out of her so easily, without even a second thought.

“My meetings have exhausted me more than usual today. Oddly so.”

“Well, I guess we could—”

Mary does not get to finish, because not a second later, Lyra traipses into the office, opening the door wide without knocking, shouting, “Mum! I’ve got to—”

“ _Lyra_. Your voice, please,” she admonishes lightly.

“Sorry, Mother,” Lyra says, her eyes widening at the sight of Marisa. She turns to Mary once more, acting as if she’d expected that her other mother would be present in the office all along.

“Mum—”

“Lyra, _modulate_ —”

“It’s alright, Marisa.” Mary waves a hand. “Close the door behind you, please, Lyra. What is it, sweetheart?”

Marisa lets Mary talk to her, if only because Mary is, for the most part, better at handling Lyra during times like this.

“Mum, Mother,” Lyra repeats, calmly this time, and more diplomatic. “May I please go to Will’s house? I promise to be back before dinner.”

“Whatever for?”

“Well, he’s got this new console he’s been wanting to show me since _forever_ , and he’s been trying to invite me to his place since he got it but I’ve exams and—”

Lyra pauses mid-sentence, lets out an exhale, and begins to explain herself once more. Without blurting everything out in a rush of syllables this time.

“I’ve finished all my revisions, Mother,” Lyra adds, addressing Marisa. “And all the things you asked me to answer, too.”

Their daughter’s grasp on quantum physics is far more advanced than most children her age, mostly because it’s what’s expected of the daughter of two physicists, and because it’s something that’s been an interest of hers since she was young. However, like any other teenager, she has other hobbies Marisa deems somewhat… _unorthodox_ , like playing all sorts of games on consoles, but lets her be anyways.

Mary would tell her, _You know it’s perfectly normal to let her act her age for once,_ and Marisa would simply respond, _I’m aware._

“Very good, Lyra. I’ll take your word for it, then.”

Lyra beams at her and the gesture makes the corners of Marisa’s lips quirk upwards in an almost-smile.

“Do you want me to drive you there?” Mary inquires.

A noise erupts from the pocket of her backpack and their daughter’s eyes widen a fraction once more. “No, I’ll be alright. Bye,” Lyra says in parting, rushing out of the office without any more words said.

“Lyra—”

“You spoil her.”

Mary looks at her then with a faintly incredulous look on her face before shrugging, sighing, and saying, “She _is_ quite hard to resist, not to mention very persuasive, I’ll give you that.”

“But,” Mary adds, changing the tone of her voice into the drawl Marisa often used, “might I remind you that _you_ were the one who bought her the console she was asking for last month?” 

Mary grins at her. Her wife is right—they both spoil her; with Marisa it is simply less obvious, but she does it all the same.

She takes a sip of her tea in an attempt to hide her own smile, and all at once she is struck by the relative simplicity and joy of it; of the life the three of them share.

There is peace and there is rightness and there is Lyra and Mary, and Marisa is a doctor, a renowned professor, has two doctorates, a plethora of published papers, and the respect a woman of her standing deserves.

Yet it is too ideal to be true.

* * *

When Marisa wakes, it is with a heightened vigor to get her daughter back and a profound rage at the things she cannot change. She shakes the dream away, thinking it a ridiculous folly, a byproduct of all the wine she’d consumed in the aftermath of Carlo’s death. 

Dr. Malone meant nothing to her; she’d shared a correspondence with the woman for all of five minutes and thought her arrogant, a sentiment even Carlo shared. (And one of the very few things he was right about.)

_Tell me about your work; I have a million questions._

_What was your doctorate in? Have you published any papers I might recognize, or…?_

It is what it is—a mere dream. Nothing more.

The fact doesn’t stop her from wondering, nor does it take away the dull ache in her chest as she wanders the empty streets of Cittàgazze.

**Author's Note:**

> Episode 5 is probably my most favorite episode of the entire second season of HDM, and I was happy—and surprised—that Marisa and Mary met, even for the briefest of moments. I couldn't shake away the thought of them being together in the weeks since I finished it, because Mary is so wonderful and they're very much a foil to each other and just— _swoon_.
> 
> This is simply a short one-shot I put together while casually ignoring all the work I have to do; it's my first HDM fic (and Marysa fic, too), so I hope it's alright!
> 
> I'm on Tumblr @ **[saintarkh](https://saintarkh.tumblr.com/)** :)


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